


Murder

by canadianwheatpirates



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crack, F/F, an exercise in having no internet and being funny, squeaky hammers, the game 'assassin'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 01:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14273586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadianwheatpirates/pseuds/canadianwheatpirates
Summary: "Through the foliage she catches a glimpse of John. The other students give him strange looks as he stalks along the sides of the buildings, water pistol held close to his body."Our favourite group of college kids get up to shenanigans. Shenanigans that Shaw plans to win.





	Murder

**Author's Note:**

> I started this back when I moved in January and didn't have any internet for a week (also, incidentally, the reason I haven't been updating anything; moving at short notice is hell). The idea of assassins, in an au where they're not assassins, playing assassin, was too hilariously convoluted to pass up. Much of what happens here is adapted from real kills in games I've played.

Sameen rubs her eyes and glances at her alarm clock. It blinks 12:03 back at her, and she lets her textbook fall shut with a thump. Her phone lights up with an email notification and she punches in the unlock code.

The game has started.

Most of the email is a boring reiteration of the rules, and she skims through it looking for the target list. Predictably, it’s right at the end; she’s trying to kill John and Lionel, and they’re both after her.

Easy.

She scrolls through her contacts and considers her options. If she can take the boys out fast, the field thins out and the whole game gets simpler; striking tomorrow morning would require schedule information she doesn’t have, though, which is a small problem.

Her idle scrolling reaches the bottom and lands on Zoe’s number. Despite bowing out of the game itself, Zoe is always willing to trade gossip and plans for the right price; she seems to have more fun doing it than she would actually playing.

Sameen smirks and starts typing.

 

“No way,” says Joss.

Sameen takes a bite out of her sandwich.

“Yeah,” Zoe adds, “bullshit. You _didn’t_ shoot a nerf gun that accurately from a second floor window.”

“Third floor,” Sameen corrects her, “and Lionel called it in. He knows when he’s lost.”

“ _How_?” asks Joss.

“Weighted darts, changed out the springs.” Sameen shrugs. “I got them signed off, it was all above board. Honestly, it’s mostly his fault for going to class by the main pathway.”

Joss stares at her disbelievingly.

“Well,” says Zoe, taking a sip of her drink, “you’re both trying to kill Root now, huh?”

“Ugh, I don’t even wanna think about Root,” Joss groans. “She’s almost as bad as Harold! I dunno where to _start_.”

“At least you have Harold pretty much to yourself,” Zoe points out. “John is way too loyal to even _think_ about betraying him.”

“Yup,” says Sameen. “And his angst is a useful distraction.”

Zoe chuckles. “Practical. Do you know how you’re gonna get him yet?”

“Nope,” she lies.

 

It’s as she’s lurking up a tree in the main quad that she begins to wonder whether she should have spared Lionel. Root had moved with ruthless efficiency, “mauling” Joss with a toy polar bear right after lunch. Sameen had taken the long way back to her dorm that night; no level of paranoia is too high when facing Root.

Through the foliage she catches a glimpse of John. The other students give him strange looks as he stalks along the sides of the buildings, water pistol held close to his body. He makes a break across the courtyard towards the tree she’s hiding in - exactly as she’d predicted.

She leaps off her branch and drops down onto his back. He yelps, collapsing under the impact. Her plastic hammer makes a satisfying squeak where it hits his head.

“Ow,” he says, muffled by where his face is pressed into the ground. After a moment, he adds, “And not legal.”

“What, because I jumped on you? Please.” Sameen clambers to her feet, smug.

“No.” He points up to the branches. “It’s an oak tree. Sacred ground.”

“Are you serious? You don’t even believe in that.”

He picks himself up and holds up his hands. “It’s in the rules. Go argue with the Pagan Society about it.”

They stare at each other.

This kind of impasse always happens during games of Murder: two participants meet on safe ground, and neither wants to leave first. John bounces on his toes and glances around. He starts to inch backwards, trying to put the tree between them.

As soon as he steps out of water pistol range, she flees.

 

Her phone pings as she places her final strip of duct tape. She steps back and double-checks her work; the doors to her floor are blacked out with trash bags, and when she steals the lightbulbs tonight the corridor will be completely dark. It’s a risky play, of course, but banking on being stealthier than Root and John is a pretty safe bet.

Unlocking her phone, she finds a game update. John’s name is crossed off; apparently, he died from the world’s most apologetic backstabbing. Shit. That puts her after Harold, and Root won’t risk the competition.

She reaches up and adds some more tape at the top of the window, just to be safe.

 

“Alright, alright.” The alarm keeps clamouring until she takes a blind swipe at her phone, scrawling out one last sentence. She huffs and wrings the cramp out of her hand. Midterms are weeks away yet, but she’d promised her mom that she’d start practising early. Skimming through her emails, she finds that the Med HOD has sent her an info packet about the honours program; it’s still a couple of years until she can go for it, but aiming for it now will give her the best shot when the time comes around.

She goes to open the document and then hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen. An unexpected email isn’t on par with a letter, but it’s suspicious - and exactly the kind of thing Harold would do.

Shoving her phone back into her pocket, she scowls. Almost falling for a trap that simple is a clear sign that she needs a study break. She shuts her curtains, flicks the lights off and gives her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness; blacking out the hallway will be pointless if she goes stumbling right into Root. Slowly her room comes into focus, reduced to greyscale, and she pulls her door open.

At first glance the hallway seems empty, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. She slides a cautious foot out of her room and, when she fails to hit any tripwires, draws her rubber knife and leaps out into the hall. The thud of her boots echoes as she lands; beyond that, there’s silence.

After a long moment’s pause she heads for the stairs, trailing one hand along the wall beside her to stay oriented. There’s a vending machine on her floor, thank god, so in a pinch she can just sprint back to the safety of her room.

The stairwell is blindingly bright compared to the blacked-out hall; she shields herself with the door, squinting around for surprise attackers. Still none. Good. She shoves her knife into her belt and wanders over to the vending machine, digging a fistful of change out of her pocket. Dropping the coins into the machine and punching in the number for a can of coke is almost reflex at this point, so automatic that she can keep her attention on her surroundings instead.

As soon as the can thumps into the delivery slot, she grabs it and cracks it open. The first sip is grossly fruity, and she spits out a spray of soda - how the _fuck_ did fanta end up in a coke can?

Her phone rings. It’s an unknown number, which definitely means that it’s Root calling. Warily, she picks up.

“Hey sweetie. You’re dead.”

“What makes you say that?” she replies, guarded. There’s always a chance Root is lying.

“Check the bottom of the can.”

She lifts it up so that she can read the underside without spilling the drink. Etched into the tin is _;) – R_ , and she frowns.

“Alright. Should I call it in?”

“I already have. Couldn’t wait, sorry,” Root adds, completely insincerely.

“Poison in a vending machine,” Sameen muses. “Risky. Could have hit any number of bystanders.”

Root makes an offended noise. “I hacked it so that it would only dispense from that row when your cellphone was within three feet. I’m not an _amateur_.”

“Has it been in there from the _start?_ ” Grudgingly, she lets a little admiration bleed into her voice.

“Yup. I’ve been tracking your study snacks for months. I did consider using the data for something classically romantic, but Murder seemed more fun.”

“Fun for you. Buy me a new one.” Rule one of poisons; don’t rig something you won’t replace.

Another can thumps into the delivery slot - Sameen quietly wishes she knew how to make it do that - and Root chirps, “There you go. Anyway, I’ve gotta figure out how to kill Harry, talk later!”

She hangs up. Sameen shakes her head and lobs her tainted drink into a nearby trashcan.

 

The peace of her usual lunch spot is in tatters when she arrives. Root is leaning forward across the table in a heated argument with John, while a nearby group of the freshers gawk at them. Wordlessly, she pulls out a chair next to Root and sits, setting her coffee down next to Root’s travel mug.

“Just send me some pictures of the next few days.”

“No.”

“ _John_.”

He frowns and shakes his head.

“I’ll do your dishes for a week.”

“You don’t even do your _own_ dishes,” says John, which makes Sameen smirk. “And the answer’s still no.” He frowns, as though he’s hurt that Root would think he’d betray Harold. God, Zoe was right about him.

Root fixes him with her deadliest glare. “Fine. If you won’t help, then scram.”

He grabs his bag and hurries off, trying (and failing) to act brave, and the loitering freshers scatter when she turns the glare on them. Placated a little by the quiet, she flops back into her chair and takes a sip of her drink.

“Sounds like that went well.”

“It’s _fine_. I’ll just hack into his phone and switch off his alarm tomorrow morning.”

“Cold,” Sameen says appreciatively. “So what were you hassling him for? Harold’s timetable?”

“Yeah. He only keeps a paper copy and I can’t just break into his room, so I’m _completely_ stuck.” She slides down further in her chair and throws Sameen a despairing look.

“Thought you’d at least be able to get his classes off the school system.” says Sameen, not buying the despondent act for a second. It’s an impressive shield at least; Root doesn’t even trust _her_ not to backstab, which is smart but a little insulting.

“Harold doesn’t go to class,” Root replies, like she’s explaining to a child that Santa isn’t real. “There’s no participation grade. He can hole up in his room as long as he needs.”

“So you’re gonna what, camp his hallway? Boring but effective.” One year, she’d cleared an entire kill list just by skulking around the dorm halls with a rubber knife. Good times.

“That’s more your speed. Swing by mine later though; I’m sure I could use an extra set of hands.” She winks badly, and Sameen reminds herself to double her mercenary cost.

 

“I brought snacks.”

Root hums in response, not looking up from her laptop. Sameen shuts the door behind her and sets the bag down next to Root’s desk. There’s no room on the desk itself; most of the space is taken up by a campus map that’s covered in scrawled arrows and crosses, and the rest holds piles of paper. It’s impossible to tell the difference between Root’s computing projects and her Murder plans.

“What’cha doin?”

“... Hacker stuff.”

“That’s pretty cryptic.” She traces along one of the marked routes, trying to figure out how it results in Harold’s death.

“Sorry Sameen, it’s for operational security. You could still betray me at any moment,” Root says affectionately. “The less you know, the better for both of us.”

“Then I’m gonna fuck off and do something useful.” Root asking her to come by and then dismissing her is frustrating, but something she should have expected.

“Wait. I have a contract for you. I think I left it under the vector calculus.” She waves a hand towards the desk, still typing with the other.

Sameen picks up a stack of papers. “It better not be that weirdass sex contract from the other week,” she replies.

“Not this time. Just murder.”

She finally finds the right pages, and Root pulls her feet up out of the way as she sits down on the foot of the bed to read them. The contract is detailed but broad, offering coffee in exchange for grunt-level help. Its lack of a detailed plan might be a worrying sign, if she was the type to worry; since she isn’t, the omission tells her that Root had meant what she’d said about opsec.

“Alright, I’ll sign.”

“Welcome aboard.” Root tosses her a pen. “Initial at the bottom of every page, sign where indicated. Be ready at 8am tomorrow; I’ll text you the instructions.”

 

The elevator dings and Sameen trots out onto the sixth floor. A cardboard box sits at the top of the stairs, tucked out of sight from below. She digs her phone out of her pocket, shoves one of her headphones in as a makeshift earpiece, and dials Root.

“Alright, I’m here. What now?”

“When I signal, grab the box and tip it down the stairs.”

“Wait, what if he takes the lift? I didn’t bring a backup weapon.”

“He won’t. Now get ready, he’s on his way.”

She crouches down beside the box, poised to spring. It’s big enough that she could fit inside it if she folded herself up right. Maybe she should do that next game; get herself delivered to someone. With a knife.

That isn’t the plan this time, though, and she wonders exactly what’s going to happen. Tipping the box downstairs suggests that she doesn’t need to aim, but she doesn’t know any area-of-effect weapons that would work in a stairwell.

Slowly, she lifts one of the flaps on the top to peek inside.

“Don’t. Unless you want him to hear you, of course.”

She scowls at a nearby camera and sits back on her haunches. What could be so volatile that just looking at it would give them away? Nothing legal, knowing Root.

A single set of footsteps breaks the silence, accompanied by panting breaths. It has to be him; only a nerd would have that much trouble with five flights of stairs.

“Now.”

She shoves the box over. Hundreds of ping pong balls spill out and bounce down the stairs, all racing toward a very startled Harold. The avalanche sweeps over him, a cacophony of orange and white plastic, and he freezes in shock. His expression flickers from surprise to defeat when Sameen stands up and waves to him from the top of the stairs.

The racket begins to fade at the ping pong balls reach the lower floors. Raising his voice, Harold says, “I saw the email regarding your contract, so I assume your employer is nearby.”

“Right here,” says Root, strolling onto the landing with a laptop under her arm. “Someone had to wait outside the dean’s office with a knife in case you outwitted Sameen.”

“A knife wouldn’t do shit if he had,” she mutters.

He climbs the last of the stairs to meet them. “I take it Joss’s emergency was also your doing?”

“Completely engineered,” Root agrees, grinning.

“Well played, then, both of you. May I leave it to you to report? I have a meeting with the dean.”

“Of course,” Root says, “He’s expecting you.”

Harold gives her a long look before pushing through the doors to the sixth floor. Root holds his gaze, smiling the whole time; once he’s gone, she dashes off a text and sighs happily. “Well. That was fun.”

“Most kills and most stylish,” says Sameen, leaning over the banister to look down the stairwell. “At this rate they’re gonna make you sit the next one out.”

“Yup.” Root kicks a stray ping pong ball. “Hey, d’you think we could con some freshers into cleaning up?”

**Author's Note:**

> Psst -- there's enough content for a part 2, so let me know if you liked it!


End file.
